


Random Acts of Sanctuary

by Natasha_Von_Lecter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Developing Relationship, F/M, Homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Von_Lecter/pseuds/Natasha_Von_Lecter
Summary: A Rumbelle Secret Santa gift based on this wonderful prompt by thedooblydont: Random Acts of Kindness, Homeless.Belle library is more than just a home for books - it is a sanctuary. And if anyone needs Sanctuary, it's Mr. Gold.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedooblydont](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thedooblydont).



> Hello, thedooblydont! Happy Holidays! Thank you for the fantastic prompt. I enjoyed Belle as she originally appeared: Smart, Observant, and Kind. I hope you enjoy your gift and have a wonderful holiday time.

If Belle French knew one true thing, it was that the Library was more than just a depository for books. Of course, there were plenty of patrons who just stopped by to grab the latest bestseller free of charge. Dozens of students who unenthusiastically browsed academic tomes while desperately trying to support their thesis papers. Even Ruby popped in to flip through the latest issues of Vogue and Cosmopolitan. But Belle’s library wasn’t solely there to provide reading material. She was proud of the weekly story time she initiated so harried moms could drop their kids off and finally get their grocery shopping done. Her “Single Ladies” book club, surprisingly popular, gave Storybrook’s widows a reason to get out of their homes and socialize. And her yearly “Carnival of Books” was enthusiastically attended by young and old. Her library wasn’t just about books – it was a vital part of the community. Even more than that, her library was a sanctuary. And if anyone was in need of sanctuary, it was Mr. Gold.  
The first time she noticed him, he was wedged into a chair in the farthest corner of the back stacks. She was friendly by nature, and her natural impulse was to greet him, but intuition held her back. His choice of location, his demeanor, his tense posture all told her that he wasn’t there for company. Yes, he had a newspaper, and his eyes were open, but the glazed look on his face told her he wasn’t reading so much as hiding. Belle could never resist a mystery, but she knew she wouldn’t solve this one by barging forward. Peeling away the layers would take finesse. Observation. Patience. She could wait. The library was practically dead. One or two visitors stopped in to return their finished books, but there was a chill in the air and when dusk began to fall she found herself alone, save for Mr. Gold. 

Within half an hour he was asleep. It wasn’t obvious at first; his back was still straight, and he remained nearly motionless. But as she grew bolder in her attention she became more certain that he was sleeping. Not a deep sleep, too shallow for dreams, but just enough to smooth some of character lines from the corners of his closed eyes. She took the opportunity to study him more intently. Her first impression had been of a well dressed man of later middle years, but when she gave him her full attention, troubling details began to emerge. The cuff off his right pant leg was slightly frayed at the edge. One of the buttons on the sleeve of his suit jacket was cracked – the jagged little edge winked at her when he shifted slightly. His hair, obviously fine and soft, had a slightly unwashed sheen. The sole of his left shoe was in need of replacing. Easy things to miss while he was awake and moving, they called out to her as she watched him sleep in a disused corner of her library. His story whispered to her from the run in his dress sock, the worn out laces of his brogues, the slight yellowing of his collar. 

And then his breath caught, and he was instantly awake. His eyes snapped open meeting hers. She was surprised to see fear looking back at her from those whisky-hued depths. It was fleeting. In an instant she saw him come back to himself. Take in his surroundings. Fold the newspaper neatly on the table and rise to his feet. He moved quickly for a man with a limp, gave no indication that the affliction pained him, but she knew in her bones that it did. She also knew that he was making a beeline for the door. And she knew she wanted to stop him. She didn’t have a clue what to say. Surely “I’ve been watching you sleep and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re homeless,” wasn’t the right thing to say to a man who had taken such effort to cultivate an air of businesslike detachment. It sounded too much like pity. She knew he wouldn’t stomach that. Not a man who couldn’t afford new laces but still shined his shoes. Instead, she insinuated herself between him and the door. He flinched, like a dog expecting an ungracious send off. Like a man who knew he was about to be asked not to come back. The shame on his face nearly broke her heart. She wanted to reach out to him, but knew he’d only skitter back from her like a frightened animal. And so she did the only thing she could think of that might make it better. She spoke to him. 

“Could you…help me?”

That stopped him dead in his tracks. He had been expecting a firm and unambiguous dismissal, not a polite request for help. It caught him so completely off guard that he just stared at her, eyes narrowed slightly, looking for the ways in which her simple request might become a trap. Belle soldiered on, undaunted. 

“The cold water tap on the bathroom sink has been leaking. It just needs to be tightened, I think, but…” she held her arm up in muscle man pose to illustrate her point, “I seem to lack the upper body strength. I’m sure it wouldn’t give you any trouble. Would you help me?” 

Gold didn’t trust his voice, and so he nodded. She rewarded him with a smile so bright it his heart shuddered erratically. “Oh, thank you! The bathroom is back and to the right. There’s a toolkit under the sink.”

“All right.” His voice was lovely. She hadn’t been expecting that. The gentle lilt there took her by surprise and made her want to hear more, but he silently slipped away towards the back of the library. Checking the clock, she realized it was closing time. She clicked the lock softly shut. She wasn’t locking him in, per se. She was just locking the rest of the world out. It wouldn’t take him long, the small repair, and she was anxious to find something else to occupy him for a moment. She looked to the pot of coffee kept warm for the guests. Grabbing Styrofoam cups, she poured one out for each of them. He emerged from the bathroom just as she finished. 

“Good as new.” She could tell he was already on his way out, but she moved close to him and pressed the cup of coffee into his hands. “I made coffee. Do you take sugar? There’s the powdered creamer down here, but I’ve got milk up in my apartment. Should I get some?”

He merely arched a confused eyebrow at her as the words tumbled from her lips in rapid succession. She raised her finger, pointing at the ceiling. “I live upstairs. It’s small, but it makes for an easy commute!”

His voice was strained. Gold couldn’t remember the last time he’d called on it to provide conversation, much less with a lovely young women who seemed to be soliciting his company. 

“Black…is good. Thank You.” 

Belle settled into a leather armchair, and gestured to its mate. He didn’t sit immediately. Eventually the awkwardness got the better of him and he perched gingerly on the edge of the chair, looking practically poised to flee. She sipped at the rapidly cooling coffee, her mind ruminating on the best way to proceed. She could tell he was a proud man, and had no wish to further wound whatever pride he had left. But he was perceptive, and she knew he’d see right through any attempt to skirt the issue. Winter was coming on strong, and the thought of anyone braving the elements on a night like this left a knot in the pit of her stomach. 

“It’s going to be a cold night.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have someplace to go?”

His eyes fell from hers, and he stared into the oily black surface of his coffee. He was silent, save for a heavy sigh that betrayed how much any admission would cost him. Without looking back to her he muttered, “I have a car.” 

She nodded. So some protection, but scarcely better than sleeping rough on a night that was threatening to snow. Her conscience would keep her up all night if she let him leave. “The library is closed, you know.” 

She meant to reassure him, but he read her statement as a dismissal. He nodded stiffly and rose to his feet.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“Wait”

He paused, his hand stilled on the lock. She continued, “Sorry, what I meant to say was that there’s a room in the back. It’s holding decommissioned books I’m saving for the spring sale, but there’s still plenty of space. No one would bother you if you wanted to stay there tonight. I don’t open the library until ten.”

Now he was looking at her. His eyes were searching her face intently, and her pulse fluttered under his regard. His gaze was piercing. He might have fallen on hard times, but even in his diminished state, he was a formidable man. “Does that seem wise, Miss..?”

“French. Belle. Wise?”

“To let a man you don’t know, a stranger, sleep here below your apartment?”

“My door locks.”

A half smile ghosted across his face at that. She had backbone, and he approved. His smile vanished quickly. She didn’t need his approval. It was as worthless as his worn suit and shabby shoes. Still – he knew it would be brutal in his car. Remembered the way the brutal cold always tinged his fingernails blue. The searing pain in his knee as he tried and failed to settle comfortably in the cramped back seat. It was miserable – but he could survive it. And yet here was this lovely woman, a virtual stranger, offering him a warm night indoors. After so many months in his car, the library’s stock room would feel like a palace. His pride told him to sneer at her and turn on his heel. His aching knee begged him to drop to it and weep thanks at her generosity. Trapped between his pride and the soft vulnerable place in his heart that had forgotten what is was to be offered kindness, he simply nodded, and whispered, “Thank you.” 

She was smiling at him again, but he couldn’t fathom why. “Will the stairs trouble you? I have a cot upstairs, and a blanket you can have but I’m not certain I can get them down the stairs on my own.” Stairs he could do. He was familiar with forging on through pain. The prospect of a roof over his head had seemed a great fortune; a cot was practically luxury. He nodded and she led him to her apartment. It was small, but cozy. He didn’t imagine the library paid a handsome salary, but she had some taste. Her walls were covered with tasteful prints, and her sofa looked comfortable. There were books everywhere. She opened a stepstool and rooted about on the top shelf of her closet. “Here we are!” she chirped, her hand grasping at the rickety old cot. She turned, pulling it down, and slipped from the top step of the stool. He reacted without thinking, grasping her firmly about the waist. She stumbled into him, but managed to find her feet. Crisis averted, he quickly released her. He backed away, hands raised and fingers splayed. She’d been so kind to him, but he could feel the prospect of a little warmth for the night slipping away. He’d put his hands on her, and even though the contact was purely innocent he knew that couldn’t be tolerated. Men like him weren’t permitted to touch women, ever, even with the best of intensions. He braced for her anger, but instead she just smiled at him. “Thank you for catching me! I’m a bit of a klutz.” 

“It’s no matter.” 

She laid the cot and thick fleece blanket against the wall. “ I wish I had something to offer you to sleep in, but you won’t fit into my PJs I’m afraid. I gave all the ex-boyfriend’s clothes to Goodwill when I turfed him out.” 

In spite of himself, he laughed. She scrambled to clarify, “Not right away! I gave him over a year to collect them. I didn’t just throw out his clothes to spite him.”

“No, I can’t imagine you doing anything for spite.” She blushed as if he’d paid her a great compliment. 

“All right. I think that’s all you need. Unless,” she glanced over her shoulder towards her bathroom, “Would you like a shower?”

He looked at her as if she’d offered him unlimited wealth and eternal youth. But he demurred, “I wouldn’t like to impose on you further.”

“There’s plenty of hot water. And besides, everyone sleeps better after a hot shower. Everything you need is in there. Soap. Shampoo. Here.” 

She took a clean towel from inside the cabinet and pressed it into his hands. Then she shut him inside the bathroom. He blinked at the back of the door for several seconds before hanging up his towel and reaching for his shirt buttons. None of her kindnesses made sense to him. If he continued to dwell on it, he knew he’d freeze up. Button his shirt back up and flee into the familiar cold. It was cruel out in the world, but it made sense. He understood hardship in a way he could not fathom this gentle, friendly woman who offered him warmth and comfort with no strings attached to them. Shaking his head, he focused on going through the motions. Untie shoes. Roll down socks. Unbutton shirt. Hang it up. Unclasp belt. Unbutton trousers. Let trousers fall to the floor. Slide down boxers. Step out of boxers and pants. Turn on water.  
The sound of water hitting the tub brought him back to the present. He stepped under the spray and shuddered as the warm, soothing water cascaded through his hair. He remembered this. God, but it felt good. He stood under the hot water for longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the simple pleasure of warmth blanketing his naked skin. Coming back to himself, he regarded the various products in her shower. There were store brand bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a bar of soap, and a jar he assumed was some sort scrub. He decided to forgo the soap – it seemed too intimate to lather himself with the bar she had no doubt pressed to her body earlier that day. Instead, he pooled a generous amount of shampoo in his hands, working it through his hair, and down his body. He wasn’t dirty – he was a fastidious man and kept himself clean. But daily use of wet wipes never felt clean the way a shower did. He sighed, giving himself over to the simple pleasure. 

He could have happily spent an hour under the hot spray, but propriety whispered in his ear that he should keep things brief. He wouldn’t want her to think he was lingering over long in her shower. Entertaining inappropriate thoughts. Or worse still, lathering himself to attention with the soap that no doubt still smelled of her skin. His cock twitched at the thought, and he resolutely tamped down the urge to quickly see to himself. She had opened her home to him, and he would not reward her by entertaining untoward thoughts of her. She was half his age, and too lovely for him by far. And even if those things were not true, he did not imagine an unemployed cripple who lived in his car was a prospect that would entice her. While the thought of being pitied rankled him, it was preferable to her looking at him with the scorn he knew he deserved. He shut off the water and began to towel himself dry. A knock at the door froze him in place. He managed to sputter, “I’m not dressed,” wrapping the towel around his waist in horror as the door opened a crack. From the other side she yelled, “I found this in the back of the closet! I guess I didn’t get all his things!” She thrust a men’s bathrobe through the slight opening. He brushed her hand as he fumbled for the robe, clutching the towel firmly to himself. She pulled the door shut without another word. 

He finished toweling himself dry, finger combed his hair as best he could, and folded his clothes in a neat pile. He wrapped the robe around himself and knotted it firmly at the waist. Thus composed, he deposited his towel in the hamper, and exited the bathroom. Belle smiled at him from the couch. “Shall we get you settled in? Do you think you can manage getting the cot downstairs on your own?” His ankle was reminding him that snow was in the offing, but he’d be damned if he’d let her see him even more diminished.

“I can.”

“Great. I’ll get the blanket.”

Oh. He hadn’t counted on having to get it down the stairs with her watching him, but it was too late to protest now. He shouldered the cot with as much coordination as he could muster and began his descent. Yes, his ankle pained him, but thankfully it didn’t give out. He made it back to the library floor with the last remnants of his dignity intact. She led him to the stockroom and he was surprised to see it was indeed quite roomy – there were many books stacked neatly against the walls, but that was hardly a detriment. He unfolded the cot and tucked it against the wall. Belle set the folded blanket at its foot, and turned her attention back to him. “Good Night then.”

She was closing the door, when his uncertain voice stilled her. “What time should I be out?”

The quiet certainty in his voice tugged at her heart. “The Library opens at ten so it would be best if you were dressed by then.” 

“Thank you.”

“I…look, you don’t have to ‘be out’ by a certain time. I think we’d both prefer if we kept this between us, but I wouldn’t turn a dog out in this cold. You need a warm place to sleep, and I have a room.”

She was…what? Just, offering him a room indefinitely? He could hardly believe it, but she looked so sincere. If there was one thing Mr. Gold knew, it was that good things ended. As sincere as she might look, as kind as she might seem, this too would end. He'd do the wrong thing, say something stupid, and out on his ear he'd go. But tonight he was warm, he had a safe place to sleep, and an indescribably lovely woman was looking on him with more compassion than he could fathom. It was the best night in he’d had in years, and even when it was over, he would be grateful. 

“Thank you. Sleep well, Miss French.”

"Sweet dreams, Mr..?"

"Gold. Russell Gold." 

"Sleep well, Russell." 

For the first time in months, he did.


	2. Chapter Two

He of course expected to be asked to leave at any moment, but the request never came. What's more, instead of treating him as the imposition he was, she acted for all the world as if he were a welcomed guest. She treated him like a friend. It was not in his nature to trust, but he learned that it was in hers. The trust she gave him was an even greater gift than a warm place to sleep and food in his belly. He'd go back to the street before he'd give her a reason to doubt him. 

He was an early riser, and a man of habit. It was an easy matter to find the cleaning supplies, considering they resided in his room. Belle didn't have the benefit of a cleaning service; the library's budget was stretched thin with the programs she had implemented. He began with the restroom. It was clean enough, but he brought it up to sparkling. Next, came dusting the shelves of books. By the time she was stirring awake, he'd moved on to sweeping. She came down the stairs just as he was emptying the dustpan into the trash can. She looked at him so queerly he began to question his choice, but she apologetically assured him he needn't trouble himself. He told her simply that it felt right to make himself useful. She'd smiled and handed him a plate of buttered toast. 

The library was immaculate by 9:45. He nodded his thanks to her and drew on his jacket, preparing for the cold. She called out to him, "I close up at six. If you think you'll be later than that..." She reached under the counter top and produced a duplicate key. She proffered it to him, but he waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be here before you close." 

That evening he arrived promptly at 5:55. The patrons had already departed. Once again he found himself alone with Belle. 

"Have you eaten?" His hesitation answered for him. "I've got stew in my crockpot - it should be done by now. Why don't you join me?" 

"I wouldn't want to trouble you further, Miss French." 

"Come on. I could use the company. You can't imagine how lonely it gets here!" 

He could hardly refuse such a request, even if it was only made for his benefit. He followed her upstairs. The stew was delicious- if he'd been a less decorous man, he'd have wolfed it down, all the while making vigorous noises of appreciation. He settled instead for a polite compliment which seemed to genuinely please her. 

She kept up more than her half of the conversation at first. She sensed that he needed drawing out; it had likely been a long time since he last engaged in much small talk. That suited her - small talk was overrated. When he did speak, it was obvious that he'd considered his words. He may not have been exactly talkative, but she could see that he was making an effort. When she'd taken his bowl to the sink, he'd surprised her by harkening back to her words on their stairs. "Why are you lonely? If you'll forgive my forwardness, I imagine there are any number of young men who would relish the opportunity to share your company. You don't have to be alone." 

She paused to consider his question. "I don't have much in common with the men I've met in Storybrook. They're nice enough, I suppose, but...it's almost like I'm from a different time. They always want to go out and drink. I'd rather just stay in with my books. I haven't really bothered looking since I Broke up with Gaston."

"He of the forgotten robe?" He was pleased when she laughed. 

"The one and only. We never would have made it in the long run. He didn't read."

His eyes drifted over the many books piled against her floorboards. "Ah. A red flag indeed." 

"Do you read?" 

"Not as much as I'd like. I used to buy new books every Friday, but..." 

"Well, I'd say you're in the right place now. Do you have a favorite?"

"I could never play favorites, but I was always fond of the classics. Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Jude the Obscure. Perhaps The Time Machine. I used to read that to...Neal." His voice choked to a whisper as he realized he'd spoken so plainly. 

"Oh. You have...a family?" 

He could feel the tears threatening to come. He closed his eyes. "Had." He felt her warm hand close around his and squeeze. 

"I'm so sorry. What happened?" 

Her touch startled him to his feet. "Forgive me, Miss French. I'm poor company indeed. I should wish you goodnight." 

"You don't have to go. I didn't mean to pry. We don't have to talk about anything that hurts you."

He wanted to run, ankle be damned. Down the stairs, out into the cold, far away from her soft hands and concerned gaze. But he didn't. She'd been so kind to him it made his heart ache. He couldn't imagine his company was any great prize, but she'd asked for it. He wouldn't deny her the only thing he had left to give. It took all his resolve, but he sank back into his chair and met her eyes. "How about you, Miss French? Do you play favorites?" 

They found safety in fiction, and their conversation trailed long into the night.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Their conversations became a nightly ritual. She was as good as her word; she never again brought up his son. Sometimes she filled him in local gossip. It was amazing just how much went on in such a sleepy town. On other occasions he would regale her with tales of the rugged beauty of his homeland. They always circled back to books in the end. Sometimes she brought out a bottle of wine. On those occasions, he would read her poetry. He would never have attempted such frivolity when sober, but the wine had a loosening effect on his tongue. She seemed to enjoy those nights most of all. 

When they were finished, he collapsed onto his cot. With his eyes fighting to stay open, he would sometimes picture her curled up in her bed on the floor just above him. It was foolish. He had no illusions that he'd ever see her there, much less join her. But he dreamed of it sometimes. And in those dreams, for the first time in ages, he was happy. He would inevitably wake, alone, and remind himself that fancying her was folly. He fancied her, nonetheless. And more than that - he cherished her. Loved her? If he was honest with himself, yes. It was pointless of course. They were...friends? It still surprised him but, he believed it to be true. She valued his companionship. She liked him. He'd never be her lover, and he knew better than to nurse such aspirations. But he did entertain thoughts of bettering himself. More than just thoughts - he'd taken steps in that direction. The days he spent outside were no longer rambling and aimless. He took odd jobs. He looked for something more permanent. It was hard going at first - he was older than the majority of the local workforce. He didn't have any computer skills, or current references. But he had determination. He was a hard worker. He'd been successful once, back when he'd delighted in spoiling his boy with the fruits of his labor. Now, for the first time in ages, he had someone who believed in him. He wanted to be worthy of that faith again. 

He kept up his cleaning of the library. Some evenings he took over cooking duty. He helped her with the dishes. It wasn't enough to pay back her kindness, but he did what he could to bring ease to her days. Weeks passed. Then months. The weather warmed, and while he half expected to be handed his walking papers, it clearly did not occur to her. They continued on as they started. More than a safe place to stay, now he had a friend. 

~~~~~~~~

One lovely summer morning, he awoke to the sound of retching. It startled him so throughly that he was flew out onto the library floor still dressed only in his robe. He emerged just in time to witness Belle evacuating the contents of her stomach into her wastebasket. In a flash he was at her side, gingerly holding her hair back as she continued to heave. He whispered soothing words to her as she trembled. When she could finally speak, she whispered, "I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute." 

He smoothed his hand over her brow, and was met with searing heat.  
"Sweetheart, you're burning up." He helped her into her desk chair and hastily scrawled "closed due to illness" on a piece of paper. Grabbing tape, he affixed the sign to the library door, then reset the lock. "The good townspeople of Storybrook will have to make due without you for today, I'm afraid." 

She began to protest, but he would hear none of it. He slid his hand carefully under her elbow and helped her rise. "Can you manage the stairs?" 

She nodded weakly and he shepherded her to her bed. She crawled under the covers, drawing them tightly about her. Despite the mildness of the day, she began to shiver. He rose, but she grasped his hand. He stroked her face and softly told her, "Everything's okay, sweetheart. I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to get you the blanket, all right?" 

She released his hand and he hastened to his room. By the time he'd brought the blanket up to her, she had fallen into a fitful sleep. He carefully draped the thick blanket about her sleeping form. He paused to laugh softly to himself. He'd been wrong. He was getting to watch her sleep. She was less peaceful than in his fantasies, but lovely even in sickness. If that wasn't proof that he'd become hopelessly enamored with her he didn't know what was. Ah, well. He'd indulged him self long enough. He fetched the trash can from her bathroom, and set it beside her bed should she be ill again. Then, he took down a glass and filled it at the tap. He set it on her nightstand for when she woke. He was taking his leave when her hand clasped his. 

"Russell?" 

"What is it, sweetheart?" 

"Would you...stay with me for a moment? My head is spinning." She shifted to the side, making room for him. He toed off his shoes and joined her on the bed. She crawled close to him, and he stroked her heated brow soothingly with his fingertips. A small smile twisted the corner of his lip. Here he was in bed with his beloved. Not as he'd dreamed about, perhaps, but there was a homeyness about it that tugged at his heart. 

"Thank you, Russell. You're good at this." He could tell she was drifting in and out of sleep, and he spoke soothingly to her. 

"I used to take care of my son when he was sick. His mother...wasn't the nurturing kind." 

He had to strain to hear her, her voice was small and muffled into her pillow. "You loved him." 

"More than drawing my next breath." 

"What happened?" Her words were indistinct and slurred. Her fragile state disarmed him, and he continued.

"Car accident. Milah and I had split up by then but we shared custody. She was driving him to my house. I was supposed to have him for Christmas. She...slid over the line on the freeway. The coroner's report said she'd been drinking. They were hit head-on by an lorry. After that I just...fell apart. With him, I'd had a home. My boy never wanted, I promise you. When I lost him...I just...stopped." 

He felt a warm wetness on the back of his hand. He looked down to find her face pressed against it, tears leaking from her squeezed shut eyes. He brushed the hair back from her cheek. "I'm so sorry. About your boy. I wish I could help you." 

"Oh, sweetheart, you do. Every day, you do. It's time for you to rest."'

He felt the tension drain from her. Her breath shallowed, and in a moment she was softly snoring. Careful not to wake her, he exited the bed and knelt beside it. Before he could think better of it, he pressed his lips to her forehead. He tucked her in, and closed the door to her room. Selecting a book from one of her piles, he settled onto her couch. If she woke, and needed him, he would be at hand. 

She slept through the day, waking only as night began to settle in. He brought her a mug of broth. She looked at him like he'd handed her a priceless treasure. 

That night he slept on her couch. His ankle cramped viciously, and it cricked his neck, but those were small prices to pay to assure that he stayed close.


	3. Chapter Three

Belle recovered quickly, but he continued to fuss over her for the rest of the week. This was new to her. She couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of her. Her mother had passed when she was so young that Belle had only a vague impression of her. She loved her father, but he hadn't been the hands on type. And Gaston had treated her like infectious waste when she'd taken ill. But Russell practically refused to leave her side. He fed her. He put a cool cloth on the back of her neck when she was fevered. He bundled her up when she was chilled. He read to her. It did not escape her notice that he chose The Time Machine. 

She had cared for him for a long time. It had been stilted at first, but he tried for her. Their nightly conversations had become the highlight of her days. And increasingly she'd missed him terribly when he retired to the little storeroom below her. At first she had only wanted to show him a kindness, too keep a fellow human out of the cold, but things had changed. And now, as he mopped her brow, and smoothed her hair she wondered if things might have changed for him, too. He'd told her about his son. He touched her with such concern and tenderness. Could there be love, as well? She knew he was a reserved man, and doubt whispered to her that if she was wrong she'd drive him away. If nothing else, they had a deep and affectionate friendship. Perhaps that should be enough? 

No. It wasn't. Not anymore. She wanted him. Not downstairs in a glorified supply closet. Here. Nestled next to her. And if he didn't want that? Well, they'd get thru it. Awkwardly, probably. But they'd already done awkward. They could do it again if they had to. If there was a chance for them, she had to know. 

She resolved to broach the subject with him, soon. When she was well again, she'd speak to him. When the time was right. 

When it was too late. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Things finally slid into place with Jefferson. Gold had initially offered his services in response to a "bookkeeper wanted" sign in the shop window, but when Jefferson saw the reverence with which Gold treated his fine fabrics he knew they would be a good match. A man who could both keep the books and sew? He'd be a perfect fit. And Gold was hungry for the work. Wiling to work weekends, and ready to lend his hands, and mind, and eyes wherever Jefferson required help. He was the man for the job, and Jefferson counted himself lucky to have him. He smiled when Gold requested that in lieu of his most recent paycheck, he'd like to have a new suit, shirt & shoes made. Yes, that could be arranged indeed. 

By the end of month, Gold not only had a sense of pride and purpose - he had a new suit, and the security deposit on his new apartment. There was just one thing left to do - break the news to Belle. She'd been restless since she'd been ill. She was the picture of health, physically, but she still seemed on edge. They continued to spend their evenings together but she was often tongue tied. It wasn't like her. At first he thought she was still recovering but as the days wore on, a disquieting thought occurred to him. Had he been too forward with her while she was sick? He'd touched her more than strictly necessary, but he'd only done so to comfort her. Never mind that he loved her and dreamed of having her in his arms - he'd still not done anything untoward. Nothing that a friend couldn't do for another friend. No, it was something else. Perhaps she was growing anxious for him to move out. She liked his company, he was certain, but maybe she wanted some space to herself? "Maybe she's met someone" whispered a tiny voice in his mind. All well and good - if she had, he'd be out of her hair soon and she could pursue someone worthy of her with abandon. And if she did harbor any sort of affection for him, well, they could still be friends without him living underfoot. But most importantly, Gold had been reminded that life was fragile and short. He loved her. If there was any chance for them, he'd only find out if he asked. But he wouldn't do that until he had something to offer her. He wouldn't court her from the stockroom of her library. He'd do it from the apartment he worked to pay for. She had given him so much; it was time for him to give back. 

That night, over dinner, he worked up the courage to tell her. "Belle...I've got some news." 

"Oh?"

"I've put a down a security deposit on an apartment." 

Her eyes grew wide. She looked startled. "You...what? I mean where did you..." 

"I've gotten a job at Jefferson's menswear boutique. I've been there for a month now." 

He had expected her to be pleased for him, but her brow was furrowed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to surprise you. I thought you'd be happy to get your space back." 

"I...I've grown fond of the time we've spent together." 

"As have I. But we both knew this wasn't meant to be forever. Belle, you've been so kind to me. You've given me back the faith in myself that I'd lost. It's time for me to move forward. I hope...we can continue to..." 

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow." 

The sickly smile painting her face slipped further. "So soon?"

"There's no point in delaying, is there?" 

"No, I suppose not. Well, then. Good Night, Mr. Gold." 

He paused for a moment - something about her reaction didn't seem right. "I had hoped you would be proud of me."

She felt a stab of guilt. He was right - she should be pleased that he was putting his life back together. "I am. I'm sorry. You just caught me off guard. I'm thrilled for you."

He nodded softly and told her, "Good night, Miss French." 

She managed to hold back her tears until he'd shut the door. 

~~~~~~~

In the morning, Gold folded his cot and hoisted it up the stairs. He leaned it against the wall by her door. He thought of knocking, but decided against it. No point in waking her. Sleep should be respected and she deserved her rest. He took a final look around the library and bid it farewell. 

When Belle woke later than usual. He head ached, and her eyes were still puffy from her restless night. When she left her apartment, she nearly tripped over his cot. He'd left without so much as a goodbye? She'd cried herself dry last night. She had no fresh tears left for this new hurt. Instead she hoisted the cot to the shelf in the back of her closet. It could go to Goodwill as far as she was concerned. 

She soldiered downstairs to begin her day. She went through the motions, but the hours dragged. She shelved books, checked in new magazines, and gave the most uninspired story time reading of her career. After what seemed like an eternity, it was time to close up. She had just reached for the lock when a knock caught her off guard. When she opened the door she was surprised to see Mr. Gold. It was the same man, alright, but the difference from yesterday was night and day. Gone was his familiar threadbare suit and worn out shoes. Instead, he was clothed in an exquisitely tailored black pinstripe. His crisp white shirt was offset by an elegant but understated grey silk tie. His shoes were shined so brightly she could make out her reflection on their gleaming surface. He took her breath away. 

"Good evening, Miss French." 

From behind his back he produced a single red rose and held it out to her. 

Still unable to form a coherent sentence, she plucked the rose from his outstretched hand. The smile he gave her chipped away the ice that had been building around her heart. She felt herself start to thaw. 

"Miss French...Belle. I've come to see if I might take you out to dinner." 

"Out?"

"I've made reservations at Il Dolce Vida. Presumptuous of me, perhaps, but...I had hoped you would permit me." 

She could tell her lack of response was starting to worry him. Without another thought she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him close. "Oh, Russell. I thought I'd lost you." 

He laid his hands against her waist and pulled her close. "Never, sweetheart. Belle, you gave me shelter, kindness, and friendship. I wanted to show you that your efforts had paid off. I didn't think I had anything to live for...but then I found you." 

"Russell?" 

"Yes?" 

"I would love to join you for dinner." 

He smiled brightly at her - this felt like a fresh start. He leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, but she turned to meet his lips with her own. A gentle warmth spread through his chest as she kissed him, and he knew, without a doubt, that he'd never be cold again.


End file.
